


Snapshots of a Night

by sunsetmog



Category: Green Street RPF, Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-08
Updated: 2004-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-30 20:48:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetmog/pseuds/sunsetmog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the set of his latest film in London, Elijah struggles with boredom and a slight obsession with his co-star Charlie Hunnam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snapshots of a Night

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://sunsetmog-fics.livejournal.com/7722.html) in April 2004. 
> 
> Original fic notes: "This is a response to all those lovely (bruised, mmmm) photos of Elijah that are floating around lj at the moment, and the fact that Charlie Hunnam appears to be in the background of them all. Particularly one photo that [info]beizy posted, which acted as inspiration. And then it got me thinking to how fantastic Charlie was in Queer as Folk (walking down that school corridor with his shirt all hanging out, sexy as) and the whole thing just escalated. What started out as a miniature ficlet became a lot, lot more. *ahem*
> 
> Thanks as always to l_s_q for giving it a read through and drawing my attention to the stupid bits that I was too tired to notice and for pointing out that, yes, indeed, we have succumbed to the darkside of teh sex. *hugs*"

**Snapshots of a Night**

**Friday Evening**

When Elijah had come to England, he had all sorts of aims and ambitions and dreams and goals. There were all sorts of things he wanted to achieve, and to experience, and to explore. But he'd come to realise, in a very short period of time, that not every film would prove to be the life-changing experience that _Rings_ had turned out to be. 

The realisation had hit one Friday night, a week into filming, as he sat (alone and bored) in his hotel room. He contemplated picking up the phone and calling someone—anyone—so he picked Dom, but Dom was probably the worst person he could have chosen, (apart from Orlando, of course, because Orlando considered London a home from home) and the phone call ends up just being a one-sided breathless ramble of a conversation where Dom listed everything he should do and everyone he should meet and every pub he should visit and every landmark he should photograph, and the whole thing was punctuated by Elijah's occasional hmms and yes's. 

He couldn't really say that he was cold and lonely and unfortunately suffering from the language barrier—which was a bit of a shock to the system because he thought he'd got the Britishisms down pat—even to the extent of calling the calling the errant catering staff manager a git—which had sadly resulted in hysterical laughter, and not of the inclusive sort. He couldn't talk about the fact that the moment he'd laid eyes on his co-star, he'd the sort of epiphany he'd only had the pleasure (pain) of reading about, and now his evenings were punctuated with breathless, sweaty, hot, staccato moments when he couldn't help but slip his hand into his pants and under the elasticated waistband of his briefs, tugging on his cock with the desperation of a man possessed, crying with relief as he came, over and over again, crying Charlie's name and wanting it to be true. He couldn't really have said any of this to Dom just at this point in time; Dom would have laughed and told him to lighten up and go out and paint the town red; told him to stop wanking in anonymous hotel rooms and go out and show the world that Elijah Wood had grown up. Elijah couldn't say any of this just right now, so he said nothing, mumbling occasional yeahs, and uh-huhs and all the time his fingers (stubbly, rough, stained, desperate) played with the waistband of his jeans and dreamed of the touch of hot, sweaty skin. 

So the phone call hadn't really helped. 

And the TV was rubbish; the 'brand new' _Will and Grace_ episodes were old. Stupid fricking country. Elijah narrowed his eyes and flicked the channels, but satirical political programmes were only really funny if you had a vague idea of who the politicians were. He had switched the TV off and wandered around the room, picking up his belongings half-heartedly, staring in some disbelief at the music magazines he'd picked up in WHSmiths over the course of the week. They had _Rolling Stone_ over here, but the specifically British ones, _NME, Q_ and _Kerrang!_ were a bit of a change from the norm. He'd flicked through them at random, paying attention to the articles about people he knew and liked, not bothering to even look at the articles about the anonymous bands, wandered into the bathroom and jerked off in the sink, all the time staring into the mirror at those big, blue eyes, and imagined staring into the eyes of another. 

He closed his eyes and imagined. 

Imagined Charlie, close up, his skin flushed with heat, his eyes large and the breath warm on Elijah's cheek, mumbling sweet nothings (fuck me, fuck me harder) and the feel of sweat on Elijah's brow. The touch of wet lips to a hard—oh so hard—cock; the feel of fingers creeping up his spine, the teeth marks across his shoulders and the damp, warm touch of tongue to neck. And all the time he imagined the hand of another on his penis, the fingers of another sliding across the red-hot heat at the tip, their grin at Elijah's sharp intake of breath; all the time his hand moving harder and faster, his free hand gripping (slipping) on wet ceramic, his eyes closed tight as he shut out the image of himself in the mirror, and it had gotten to the point where he couldn't tell what was real and what was fake, and there were pinpricks of starlight across his vision, until the pressure mounted and his movement slowed, and he breathed, and came, and breathed. And he breathed the name of another—he exhaled Charlie's name. 

And he blushed. 

And then, of course, the phone had rung, and Elijah had picked it up breathlessly in the hope that it was someone about to make his night better, in case it was Dom. Because Elijah was always talkative after shooting his load. Elijah revelled in conversation afterwards. And if it was Dom, then Elijah could expound on the fact that he was infatuated with his co-star, and how just seeing Charlie in the morning, (stumbling into the make up trailer in his puffa jacket, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with a fist and croakily making sporadic conversation with his make up girl whilst shakily lighting up a cigarette and cupping a Styrofoam coffee with the grip of one who needed caffeine to come alive), was enough to make Elijah grin and to forget about the cigarette in his hand. And he could get excited when Dom smiled and asked him what was so special about _this_ particular guy, special enough to make Elijah forget about his cigarette and for him to drop ash all over his hand, and then Elijah could tell Dom all about Charlie's grin, and his laugh, and his car—overflowing with cds and tapes (but not with _him_ , sadly) and how when they'd wrapped a scene, he'd give this little wink, and Elijah would melt inside, and harden outside, and... 

But instead of one northern voice, it was another, and Charlie was asking him what he was up to, and did he fancy heading out and getting a pint—even making it a few bevies if he was up for it. And Elijah was so surprised (and actually, quite relieved, because spilling your guts to Dominic was one sure way of ensuring that _all_ his friends would know his business within the next twenty four hours) that he'd agreed before Charlie had finished getting the sentence out. And, so, he was tugging on the button fly of his jeans and running his fingers through his hair even as he was hanging up the phone. Grinning into the mirror and wishing himself luck, grabbing his jacket, and the door had shut before the minute was out. 

**Friday Night**

The pub was a proper one, and Charlie must have searched high and low to find one that wasn't a pseudo wine bar or a tacky theme pub or one that was overflowing with drunken students who wouldn't have left Elijah alone to enjoy his drink in peace. The pub was dark, and dingy, with yellow nicotine stained curtains and a motley selection of old men propping up the bar whilst middle-aged women in skirts that wouldn't have looked out of place on a twenty year old draped themselves over their other halves. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, and Charlie had to fight his way through it to get to the bar, leaving Elijah with the complicated job of finding a table that wasn't in the way of the TV (apparently darts finals were highly contested, and the viewing public in the _Hark to Rover_ didn't appreciate people—even if they were famous movie stars—getting in the way of the screen) or wasn't too close to the gambling machines and the particularly bountiful bunch of red-faced unsteady men whose burst capillaries dominated that corner of the pub. . 

And then Charlie had come back to the table, carefully balancing an overflowing pint glass, a bottle of Budweiser and holding two packets of Brannigans between his teeth. Grinning as he noticed the table that Elijah had picked, tucked away in the corner behind the old men playing dominos. 

"Hey man, you got chips!" Elijah clapped, rubbing his hands together before helping himself to the bottle of Bud. Careful not to make eye contact; not just yet, not when he could still remember himself, red-faced and breathless, pounding away over the sink not a half hour earlier. 

"Crisps, you fucking yank." But Charlie smiled, sinking down onto the stool opposite him and depositing them in front of Elijah. His knee nudged Elijah's, and the movement caused an increase in body temperature around Elijah's side of the table, causing his pulse to quicken and his jeans to tighten slightly. 

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." Elijah grinned, for the first time meeting Charlie's eyes as he reached for the crisps / chips / snacks. "What the fuck flavour are these?" he asked, a moment later, his nose wrinkling in distaste. Anything to fucking ignore the fact that Charlie's leg was still next to his, and he was getting hard ( _hard_ , for God's sake, fucking aroused, fucking, fucking hell) under the table in a grimy back street pub in the back end of fucking nowhere, and, just fucking breathe else he'll be calling the doctor sometime soon, and then everyone will know that he's just some oversexed kid with an eye for the boys. 

"What's up with 'em?" Charlie put down his pint, running his fingers through his short hair. It had been raining outside and his wax (always problematic in rain) had left a white residue on his forehead. 

Elijah itched to run his thumb across the damp skin, but he maintained that he had some sort of tenuous grip on reality left, and quenched the desire by opening the nearest bag of crisps. "Roast Beef and Mustard Flavour?" Elijah stared in some disbelief at the packet in front of him, "Smoked Ham and Pickle? They're not fucking chips, they're a fucking meal."

Charlie smiled. "Don't slag 'em before you've tried them, Lij." 

And there was that touch again, the feel of Charlie's leg pressing against his, and all he had to do was get past this and everything would be fine. Just fine. They'd go back to work on Monday morning and Charlie would be none the wiser about Elijah's (embarrassing) little problem in the pants area, and they could just behave like normal co-stars without any of that _other_ stuff getting in the way. Start a conversation, he told himself, trying desperately to ignore the pressure on his calf from Charlie's leg, start any conversation, just prove to him that you're not utterly psychotic. So with a look of such pained concentration that Charlie couldn't help but burst out laughing, swinging back on his stool and dropping cigarette ash all over the carpet, Elijah bit into a beef and mustard crisp, all the time desperately trying to think of something sensible to say. "Hey, that's good." Elijah nodded, finally, appreciative. "Strong." _Well, that's better than nothing,_ he told himself, ripping open the bag of chips so they could share.

"See?" Charlie raised an eyebrow. "I've got good taste."

Elijah grinned again. "Good taste in chips, maybe. I don't know about anything else." _Oh, that's great. Idiot. Insult the guy. Crap._

"Oi, you." Charlie's foot nudged Elijah's. "I'm here with you, aren't I?"

Elijah stilled. What the fucking hell was that supposed to mean? Elijah picked up the bottle in front of him, pretending to concentrate on the 'born on' date. Dom had spluttered some long list of expletives when he'd seen that, and Elijah was inclined to believe him. It tasted like piss. Or it would do, if he had any idea what piss tasted like, which he didn't, and he realised it was lucky he was a good actor, else Charlie might well be raising an eyebrow in his general direction and wondering what sort of bug-eyed freak he was having a drink with. 

He looked up.

Charlie had raised an eyebrow in his general direction. 

Elijah blushed. Shit. 

"I've seen you watching me, you know." Charlie said, his voice low, his hands cupping his pint. A small smile was playing on his lips, still damp from the beer. 

"What?" Elijah's eyes were even wider than normal, if that was humanely possible. He was also having quite a hard time tearing his eyes away from Charlie's mouth, and was wondering what they would taste like. _He's not a fucking meal, for Christ's sake,_ he told himself, wondering where the real Elijah Wood had gone, and if he asked _really_ nicely, would he come back and take over the driving again. This evening was fucking odd. This whole shoot was fucking odd. He missed America. Or New Zealand. Or anywhere that wasn't right here, right now. 

"Watching me." Charlie repeated, and helped himself to a crisp. "I've seen you watching me, because I've been watching you." His eyes met Elijah's briefly, and he waggled his eyebrows, grinning and forcing Elijah to the unhappy conclusion that just one word from Charlie was enough to make his jeans uncomfortably tight and make his breath catch in his throat. He swallowed. Loudly. _Fuck._

"Watching me?" Elijah was fully aware that this had more of a chance of becoming a conversation and less of a monologue if he could actually get a sentence out, but right at the moment, staring across the table at Charlie, who wasn't smiling any more, and was just _looking_ at him, chances of anything other than repetitive gutteral noises seemed entirely out of the question. 

"Uh huh." Charlie shrugged, picking up his pint once more. "I was looking forward to working with you. I fancied you even before you showed up. Have for a while, actually." 

"I thought you Brits were supposed to be the reticent ones," Elijah managed eventually, blushing as his eyes met Charlie's. He fumbled in his pocket for cigarettes, needing something to keep his fingers from tapping the table repetitively.

"We're all European now," Charlie explained, and Elijah could feel Charlie's leg pressing against his underneath the table, and it was doing extremely funny things to his insides. "It started with the channel tunnel."

"Channel tunnel?" Elijah stammered, gutted to find that his trademark cool (geekiness) was shattered in the face of such a blatant proposition from his co-star. 

"Uh huh. And then the European Union. I blame Brussels."

"Brussels?" Elijah's hand shook as he fiddled with his lighter.

"Bloody bureaucrats." Charlie muttered, reaching across the table and removing the lighter from Elijah's hand. With a flick of his wrist, he held the flame across for Elijah to light his cigarette from, and Elijah wondered when he'd completely lost his grip on the situation. "But I suppose if it makes it easier to come right out and say 'd'ya fancy a shag', then I should be happy we're selling ourselves to the European parliament."

Elijah gulped. "Um..."

"'You alright, Lij?" Charlie grinned. Bastard. Fucking grinning. He was fucking enjoying this. Elijah quelled the desire to accidentally knock his bottle all over Charlie and his smugness.

Elijah eyed the bottle. 

Imagined licking beer-stained skin. 

He eyed the bottle again.

He felt the pressure of Charlie's leg under the table. 

Watched him lick his lips. 

Imagined peeling damp clothes off sticky skin and running his tongue over taut muscle.

Elijah nudged the bottle with his elbow. 

Elijah hadn't foreseen the possibility of the beer heading in his direction and not just Charlie's. 

"Fuck!"

 

**Friday Night** / **Saturday Morning**

The possibility that Elijah may one day actually engage in (real, not imaginary) sex with Charlie had never really crossed his mind. He'd left for the pub that evening with the vague aim of getting to know his co-star, passing some time when he'd been lonely, and with the vague intention of getting through the evening without jerking off for the nine hundredth time that week. He really was getting dull and repetitive in his old age. Going to the pub was just something to do other than repeatedly masturbating in the various crevices of his hotel suite, maybe even something to add fuel to his fantasies. 

His intention had never been to spill a whole bottle of Budweiser and half a pint of Stella (the bottle had caught it on the way down) across the table and into both their laps, leaving them both sat there for a moment in bemused horror—Elijah, that he'd done such a thing, and Charlie, that he was covered in beer, until they'd both leapt up in disbelief.

Elijah still couldn't figure out how they had ended up in the dark beer garden in the rain; him with his back pressed up against a wall, Charlie pressed up against him with his hands in Elijah's hair and his tongue forcing his way into Elijah's open mouth, breathing 'fuck' and rain sliding down and across his brow. He'd never expected this when Charlie had stared across at him with undisguised understanding in his eyes. He'd never expected Charlie to mutter "Come on" and for him to cup his elbow and drag him out of the pub through a fire door by the toilets. He certainly hadn't expected the pressure of Charlie's leg against his cock (which was painfully erect by now, and not helped by the soaking wet nature of Elijah's jeans); nor did he expect the added pressure of Charlie's hand cupping his erection, grinning through the rain and leaning in again, biting Elijah's lip as he kissed him. He most definitely had not expected Charlie's other hand on his shoulder, forcing him down the wall, the brickwork scraping against his leather jacket in a manner most likely to cause scuffing. For a second, Elijah considered complaining about being treated in such a manner, but then Charlie was undoing his zip with one hand and exposing his cock to the elements with the other. And Elijah was a kind-hearted soul at the base of it all, and he didn't like to see people cold and wet, so really, he was doing Charlie a favour in warming him up; in taking Charlie in his mouth and breathing, warm and then hot against the soft, taut skin. And all the time the rain was slicing through the air and pelting down, causing Charlie's wax to run down his face and Elijah to rue the moment he'd decided to wear contacts that day. 

Elijah had expected the pressure of his own erection against the inside of his jeans, the throb of his arousal dampening any possible desire to stop sucking, tasting and breathing across Charlie's length. Elijah had expected the cold, uncomfortable feeling of his wet knees against the flagstones, the musky smell of sweat, and beer, and, well, arousal from Charlie's groin. He had expected the wet, heavy feeling of the rapidly soaking denim of Charlie's arse as his fingers cupped and kneaded in an effort to _just keep holding on._

He hadn't expected to feel Charlie's fingers in his hair, pulling and tightening and rubbing as Elijah miscalculated and his teeth grazed the sensitive skin; hearing Charlie hiss 'Christ' out onto the night sky and then the sharp intake of breath as Elijah righted himself and Charlie was pushing—thrusting—into Elijah's mouth, and then there was a moment of absolute silence when the rain was quiet but oh so heavy, and the water ran down Elijah's face and into his eyes, and there was the gut reaction not to swallow, but to gag, and Charlie had come (entered, arrived, penetrated). This was the moment that Elijah hated; the oxymoron that blindsided him every time. Charlie's fingers loosened their hold on his hair, the taste of _him_ engulfing every sensory perception, the feel of damp skin against his tongue and the roof of his mouth. The pain of pulled hair, the taste of salt and the smell of sweat overwhelming his every pore; the feel of a flaccid penis against his lips. The irony that whilst Charlie's hands now rested on the cold stone of the wall, Elijah's could do nothing else but slip to his own groin, shifting against the rain to make his own erection more comfortable against the chafe of wet denim. 

For a moment, the wind swirled and the rain fell sideways, and Elijah's head lolled against the wall. The muffled breathing of Charlie above him acted as his own windbreak, shielding him for a moment as his own breathing returned to normal. But still, his own erection tormented him, and his hands crawled up Charlie's legs (sensitive now, post-orgasm) to pull himself up. And Charlie—Charlie who a moment ago had been erect and tight in Elijah's mouth—Charlie's mouth was in his hair, on his forehead, warm and wet against his pebbled skin. Elijah's eyes met his for a moment, and Charlie grinned, muttering 'not bad, kid, for a yank', to which Elijah had laughed, slapping the palm of his hand against Charlie's bicep, saying 'watch it, dumbass, else that'll be the last time, not the first' with that same mouth which just a minute ago, Charlie had pounded against and come into, and if you stopped to think about it, the whole sex thing was incredibly odd. Strangely compelling, however, Elijah realised, as Charlie's lips grazed his, sliding down in a wet trail to lick his neck and suck on the sensitive skin above the collar of his (scuffed) jacket. Kept licking, and sucking, and then there were _teeth_ involved, and it was all Elijah could do to keep the growl locked up inside, (because it was early days for growling), so Charlie had to make do with a strangled yelp from deep inside Elijah's throat. 

Elijah realised that it probably would have promoted his manliness more if he _had_ have growled, for yelps were more puppy-dog than giant wolfhound, and Elijah knew which one he'd rather be. This didn't appear to have stopped Charlie however, for his (wet, icy cold) fingers had slid underneath Elijah's shirt, and he shivered as they pushed against his stomach, his thumbs sliding into belt hooks and (casually, like this was something he did everyday) undoing the top button of his jeans. 

His damp throat was suddenly cold as Charlie stopped biting; lifting his head and meeting Elijah's defiant gaze from hooded eyes, a smile slowly curling across his face. He winked, the process taking an infinitesimal period of time as Elijah's breath halted, catching in his chest as fingers stole inside his jeans, creeping down his erection in tiny steps, pausing in the hair at its base. Elijah gasped—yes, gasped—and his eyes (wide and blue) met Charlie's in the dark, the rain whipping against his face. 

Charlie raised an eyebrow and slipped down onto his knees. He paused for a second, his eyes meeting Elijah's, before he aimed a sly lick right up the base of his erection, hearing and feeling Elijah's sharp intake of breath and grinning as he assumed responsibility as its cause. 

Elijah's fingers tangled in Charlie's (short, short, short, furry) hair as Charlie's tongue did things to Elijah's cock that he hadn't previously deemed possible, and he could feel his pulse quicken, loud and hard against the rain. His head lolled back against the wall and he knew he was breathing words out, quiet, halting breaths that spoke of desire and heat and tumultuous emotion; words that were lost on the rain, and never made it to Charlie's ears—Charlie who was currently engulfing his cock in tight, wet, stroking heat, Charlie whose eyes flicked upwards, Charlie whose eyes Elijah couldn't meet because this happened to be one of those moments where Elijah concentrated on the heavens and felt the rain running down his neck and under his shirt collar. 

Elijah's fingers (stubbly, bitten to the quick) scrabbled in Charlie's hair as his breath caught and the pressure mounted, and Elijah was left wondering if it had been an hour or if it had been ten seconds, because he'd come and he sagged back against the wall, the cold of the bricks cooling his sweating skin. 

He was only cold for a second, the length of time it took Charlie to get up off his knees and press the length of his body against Elijah's, shielding Elijah from the wind and the rain as Charlie breathed (warm, moist, sex) against the pulse in his neck. 

"Alright?" Charlie muttered, pulling away. His eyes met Elijah's, and he grinned. 

"Not bad." Elijah smiled, and his fingers found the short, soaking hairs on the back of Charlie's neck. "I could do with a cigarette and a pizza though."

Charlie laughed, and his lips found Elijah's against the rain. 

 

**Early Saturday morning**

Elijah couldn't help but stare. 

He had the funniest feeling that this was a second tig, and any second now he'd take one forkful and everyone around him would break out into hysterical laughter and once more, he'd be the butt of everyone else's jokes. 

Nothing that _green_ could be anything other than a joke.

But there wasn't anyone else around. Just him and Charlie, eating takeaway in a bus stop to keep the rain off, at fuck knows what time, (late, late, late) on Friday night. Saturday morning. Which led Elijah to the uncomfortable conclusion that he really was supposed to believe that the green shit was not a joke. He narrowed his eyes.

"What's up, kid?" Charlie was eyeing him up from the other side of the bus stop, a can of irn bru in one hand and a box of matches in the other. He waved the matches in Elijah's general direction, "You got a cig I could nick?"

"Is this some kind of joke?" Elijah asked eventually, cautiously prodding the white Styrofoam tray with his fork. 

"Is what a joke?" Charlie had given up waiting for Elijah's answer and had reached across the divide, into Elijah's jacket, and was currently rooting through the pockets in the search for something smokable. His other hand rested on the soaking curve of Elijah's ass. 

" _This_." Elijah nudged the tray in Charlie's general direction. "You don't really expect me to eat that, do you?"

Charlie narrowed his eyes. Stared at the tray. His eyes met Elijah's. "What's wrong with it?"

"It's luminous, for a start. Could be fucking nuclear for all I know. Probably full of chemicals."

"It's pie and mushy peas, Lij." Charlie shook his head, muttering, "I dunno, he asks you to show him the real England, and all he wants is bloody Stratford and roses and cups of tea. Not sodding interested in the reality." 

"Do people really eat this?" Elijah asked, cautiously, spooning up a forkful. His motivation in actually trying the food had more to do with the fact that Charlie's fingers were still cupping his arse, (and the faster they finished their food, the earlier the taxi driver would let them into his cab, and the quicker they'd be back at the hotel) and less to do with an inquisitive desire to experience other cultures. He gritted his teeth.

"If the pizza shops have shut, and the chip shop has stopped serving chips, and the only burger van in the vicinity happens to be owned by a guy from Bradford called Keith, then yes." Charlie smirked. "Stir in the mint sauce. Trust me, you'll love it."

"So, why aren't you eating yours then?" Elijah pointed out as sensibly as he could, when cold fingers were exploring (pulling) on the waistband of his jeans. 

"Too hot." Charlie shrugged. "And I fancy a fag before I dig in, anyway."

Elijah raised an eyebrow. Looked across at Charlie. Nope. No sign of any recognition that he'd uttered anything even slightly out of the ordinary. Sometimes he loved this country. Elijah took a bite. Not bad. For green shit.

**Saturday Morning**

Charlie lay back on the bed early Saturday morning, reaching out for his watch from the bedside table. "Fuck," he muttered, screwing his eyes up to make out the time in the dim, early morning light, "It's only fucking half six."

Elijah rolled over and pulled the duvet up over his head. "Fucking go back to sleep, dick."

"I'm wide awake now," Charlie moaned, shifting noisily across the bed and settling down next to Elijah. His fingers lazily made their way across Elijah's bare shoulders, crept across his (slightly stubbly) face and settled in his hair, fluffy from their early morning shower. There had to be some benefits to coming in, late at night, cold, wet, shivering and hard. 

"Fuck off, you freak, and let me sleep." Elijah mumbled, although he didn't make any move to rid himself of Charlie's exploring fingers, a fact that Charlie noted, and made plans to exploit. 

Charlie grinned. He was wearing Elijah down, slowly. Just a few more minutes and Elijah wouldn't even remember being asleep. Oh no. His hand was creeping, slowly, down Elijah's naked torso, ignoring the petulant whimpers which appeared to be saying 'please leave me alone, you dick, it's fucking half past six in the morning and you didn't let me go to sleep until after three a.m.' but Charlie is more than aware that the responses Elijah's body are sleepily, automatically making are contradicting everything it appears his mouth is saying. Charlie's fingers reach Elijah's nipple, and without even stopping to think, Charlie is leaning over and biting it, hard enough to elicit a "fuck!" from Elijah, soft enough so that when he tries to sit up again, Elijah's fingers are in his hair and there's no chance he's going anywhere anytime soon. 

Charlie's hand finds itself at Elijah's bellybutton, his fingers slowly making their way down the hair trail to Elijah's boxers (boxers? Charlie wonders, when the fuck had he had time to put his boxers back on? Don't think they'll be staying on too long, matey), but then Elijah's grabbing hold of him, pulling him up the bed, and Elijah's kissing him. 

"It's fucking half six in the morning," Elijah told him, as his fingers wandered over ears, and hair, and neck, and forehead. "You're lucky I'm kissing you and not killing you. Fucking go back to sleep."

Charlie raised an eyebrow. Contemplated telling Elijah about his fantasy involving hobbits. Decided that this probably wasn't the time. Grumbled slightly as he pulled the duvet up and over them both. Moaned slightly as Elijah's lips met his. Smiled as Elijah shifted slightly, his arm resting across Charlie's stomach. Plenty of time for getting Elijah naked and hot at a later date. Yes. Later. _Later_. Sleep.


End file.
